Let Your Footsteps Fall Where None Have Tread
by SharpGn2
Summary: The story of aspiring explorer Willem Littledale, a young man from a small town who has yet to experience most of what Faerun has to offer, as well as those he meets and travels with along the way. Set within the Forgotten Realms- Author's own canon. Rated M to be safe more so than expected content- though anything may happen.
1. Prologue

Flashes of light and booms thereafter heralded the continuing inundation of all below the heavens. An apocalypse of water, leaving nothing dry. Sharp and loud gusts of wind, surely a tempest to any who observed, brought about a cold that chilled to the bone. The Thunder Peaks were earning their keep this night. As any creature of sanity was well away from these conditions in shelter, something moved along a rock wall that jutted out, above the tall trees of the slope. The altitude high, the wind unforgiving, and the water… the water coming down and all around, never ending; these things did not stop a lone humanoid figure from darting from one cropping to the next, taking caution to move from foothold to foothold, with an objection to the conditions- an intent to climb higher.

The smallest streams of water poured over the edge above in a multitude of places, adding to the downpour all around. Hands, light of skin- a contrast to the rock and dark clothing of the individual, reached upwards, grabbing and testing grip. Pulling up, the figure moved some dozen feet above, and then shifted. A sudden clap of thunder caused a pause, and a need to press against the wall for any sort of cover as everything shifted loose joined in, playing a role with the water to find its way down. Thankfully, only small pebbles met the figure, and though they left a stinging reminder, they were little of deterrence. Coming to what could have been an impasse to the objection, the figure decided to climb around a rounded edge of the outcrop, some number in the hundreds of feet above the trees and much safer grounds below. Pulling around, slipping, holding, and moving- a successful rounding of the edge, and perhaps a means up- till yet another clap of thunderous noise brought about the loosening and loss of any grip.

The figure fell, slamming into a rock face and sliding, a fall with certain death awaiting. The screams in reaction were unheard, and in the flashes of light offered, hands and legs flailed to find anything to impede the fall and survive. Among the possessions, a War Pick which was gripped and swung haphazardly, causing a clang lost in the moment of failure. As feet slipped out with nothing below them, a final swing drove home, the weight of the figure pulling it over the edge, yet wedging it in deeply. Mist from within the dark recesses of the hooded figure indicated a rapid breathing being slowed in relief. The hood tilted up towards the saving grip on the pick, and then down to realize it's boots were only feet from a safe landing, a flat top of rock and what little soil was yet to be washed away. Loosening the Pick with the weight hanging on it, the figure dropped down and landed, albeit with a struggle to stand. There was shelter here.

No more than a hollow that offered perhaps a dozen feet of dry space, marked a paradise for rest. Lowering his hood, it became clear this was a young man, human of race, with dark, tired eyes and matted hair. He had to bend low, his height significant, and with pack, sword, and cloak off of his back, slid down to a seated position. The hollow acted as an amplifier of thunder and a silencer of the pouring rain, leaving a stark contrast of loud, rattling booms left with time of silence in between. Those times of silence offered reminders of pain coupled with a looming fatigue. The mind, however, was still active. As one hand wiped away the film of water and sweat that covered him, another fished through his pack to be surprised that items yet dry remained. Namely, a small pipe, and a double clothed pouch, which with a pinch produced some dry tobacco. Having to fish deeper into the pack and lean forward caused a small grunt of misery, but brought about a wooden box, which slid to reveal match sticks. Pausing, he eyed the box and the memories that came with it caused him a smile- for those memories felt an age ago.

* * *

Author's Note: Hello! This will be my first time writing and posting in quite some years (try number 2 after disliking my attempt at this story earlier); I began my fanfic writings on stories set in the Second World War, and sadly had a bout of doubt and deleted those. I've played D&D on and off through various means, most notably that of the video game 'Neverwinter Nights' (NWN) which was an addiction for easily a decade. I've held both the role of player and DM, and currently DM a 5.0 campaign.

I mention all of this because our protagonist is a character of mine, that I've developed and only really played for a stint on NWN. Yes, he is a creation of my own. Dungeons and Dragons, the setting of the Forgotten Realms, and many characters and creatures found within this writing are the original works of their respective owners (Ed Greenwood, Wizards of the Coast, etc.)- I encourage anyone who reads this to check out the setting and get involved in a gaming group- it's a lot of fun!

I'd also like to say that some characters, organizations, and even events are the workings of players and DMs I've gamed with over the years. I like to include really unique creations of the people I've gamed with, and generally ask players who join my games if it's alright to keep their characters for further use. I make the best attempts to contact these individuals for proper authorization, and without it I will alter said characters out of respect. I also won't be naming names or even player accounts without prior approval- there are many who wish anonymity and I respect that. If you feel that I am using your work without your express approval, please tell me and I will make whatever accommodations necessary to respect your wishes.

I will not be following any 'canon' but my own. (This will become VERY apparent later- it's actually based on a series of events in one of my campaigns) Treat these as one of the many Forgotten Realm's realities in the span of the Multiverse if it helps. This includes differences both present and past. Any questions or concerns please message me. Otherwise, I welcome any and all reviews that are constructive in criticisms or praising of my work too. Overall, I would appreciate honesty and thought out reviews if at all possible. These allow me to gain the viewpoint of my readers and be more considerate of them- you.

I think that about wraps up an Author's Note.


	2. Chapter 1

With a sudden scratch that interrupted silence, came a rushing burn of tiny flame from the end of a match. The match moved swiftly from candle to candle, five total atop a silver candelabra. A quick flick of the tiny wrist which held it snuffed the flame, leaving a simple rise of smoke and smell of a burnt matchstick. The candelabra, lit, revealed a cramped room of aging stone, stuffed with shelf that brimmed books of various size and age. A lone person sat before a small desk that contained in part the source of light, an open tome with half-written page, and beside it inkwell and quill. A wooden cup was set upon a corner, and a breath was taken.

The small figure, draped in a simple robe brown of color, lifted the quill and rolled it along a small rag before continuing writing along the page. Light Gray eyes followed along the quill's motions, occasionally stopping to glance towards a book, propped open atop a stand for ease of reading. Small lips pursed, raven black hair cut to the shoulders whipping back as the apparent young woman continued her work. She was human, fair of skin, with a professional countenance that seemed permanent.

Copying was a tedious task for many, and something that even a seasoned Scribe would never fancy; for Ismene, however, it was a chance to reflect and lose herself in her mind. The young woman of twenty and two Springs was devout to the God Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge. Such was apparent as the only item on her person that did not cry of plain was a golden amulet, tied with a silver chain. The amulet was a depiction of a scroll, the holy symbol of her deity. As Ismene tipped her head to study the page she had written for errors (though she knew she made none), the amulet dangled from her neck, twisting here and there in small motions that carried the light of the candle flame in patterns.

The room was left in silence for the moment, save the rhythmic breathing, until a toll of distant bells could be heard. As the seventh and final bell faded, Ismene appeared startled. Had she reserved herself to the dark, silent recesses of thought for so long? Regardless, her routine would not be changed. The candelabra's short life was snuffed as the quill was wiped and left atop the table. The seventh bell of the evening marked a ritual for the young devout; it was time to make a trip to a closing bakery and collect her dinner.

The seventh toll of the bell might have been an omen for another; a young man who could not hear it as he stared into a tankard of ale that he cupped with both hands, surrounded by the noise and bustle of _The Rusty Justicar_ , one of Iriaebor's lesser known taverns. The ale was strong for his taste, but a welcome reprieve from the bustle about him, and even more so the gargantuan city he had only heard about till some hours before. To a spectator he may have appeared a disturbed armsman; a sheathed Greatsword set against his table, a hefty pack on the floor beneath it, with what appeared to be a war pick of some kind tied to it. He didn't appear to be staying for long, as a deep, Navy Blue cloak remained about his shoulders. He wore a brown sleeved shirt and pants along with leather boots, over which was a brigandine of studded leather dyed like his cloak.

The man under the armor with hands cupped around ale didn't appear to fit his appearance. A really young man that could not have seen his 20th winter, his dark eyes betrayed a certain fear, maybe a lack of confidence or questioning thereof. Brown hair swept back revealed a clean shaven face with light skin. His armor and weapon appeared at best untested, and his demeanor struck a chord that he was not comfortable. Some of the patrons of the _Justicar_ were catching onto this, he felt, as he took a long swig and glanced around.

A group of river sailors slammed their table and swore profusely, demanding bets on the cards that centered their table; he only knew they were sailors for how much they spoke of their ship, _the Seagull._ A pair of men in working clothes shared drinks silently; a hooded man in faded green cloak sat silently alone; and what he deemed a trio of adventurers took bites from a large soup bowl. A wench went about taking orders as a barmaid filled them. A man behind the bar, suspected to be the owner, moved from the common room back into a kitchen to bark orders at a cook. Considering how small the _Justicar_ was, this made for a cramped experience.

The young man had finished his drink and intended to order another, sliding his chair back and standing when he felt something heavy fall over and behind him. Glancing back with raised brow, he came face to face with an angry river sailor, who started to scream at him in unintelligible drunken fury. Perhaps there was a hope to settle and resolve things, perhaps there was a hope that his comrades would sit down their drunken friend- neither would be the case, as the young man was soon surrounded.

Ismene couched a small basket in her arm, filled with bread and pastries from a favorite Bakery ran by a woman named Cezelia. She had arrived in the City of a Thousand Spires a couple tenday ago, and found herself staying in and working for the City's small library. Upon exploring the surrounds, she found and made a commitment to do business with Cezelia and enjoy an indulging dinner every couple of days. The winding road was shadowed from the several spires above as the light of dusk began to fade away, and the young woman made a point to note the relatively quiet and uncongested road before her. A member of the guard, known as The Shields, marched past her with little regard; a small cart pulled by an Ass contained a compliment of hops; a couple sailors eyed her up and down but simply smirked and went about their way- to which she regarded with a raised brow and unamused stare.

The relatively peaceful walk back to the Library was swiftly ended with a crashing open of a door and soon thereafter a young man flying through, who slammed down into the ground before Ismene with her basket. Her Gray eyes glanced down on the man, who lay on his back and stared back up at her with some confusion. Glancing left, she came face to face with the man's assailants, a rabble of drunkenness that disgusted her senses- it was clear these men had not bathed in a tenday or more. Laughter and coughing fits filled her ears as they approached; she darted her gaze back down at the young man, who had bloody nose and a bruised face and appeared all too terrified. They spat words at him that were difficult to register, and as she glanced over she had to tilt her head up- one of the rabble had his eyes on her, and was easily a foot taller than her tiny frame, a few inches over five feet in total.

"Ye' shouh geh outta 'ere little gurl, 'fere we get any idears." The man cackled, several missing teeth and awful breath apparent.

Ismene truly preferred neutrality in most matters, but this man's words caused a brow to raise and the need for a retort,

"I believe you've had more than your share of… hm… 'fun' with this man, and I believe it unwise for you and yours to continue your assault upon his person or, worse, your lack of courtesies towards myself." Ismene's voice was soft and light in pitch; a contrast both to the deep voice of the man before her and the words she spoke.

The response was laughter from the man and his friends; the young man on the ground propped up, appearing dazed and glancing at what was going on above him. Ismene's countenance turned somewhat cold and with warning as she eyed the man. She was calm and continued to hold her basket of goods. As the man's laughter died out, a hand suddenly reached out towards the scruff of her neck. That would be his first mistake.

With lightning reflex, she gripped his thumb and stepped forward, using her weight to twist it and his hand around, causing him to scream out and drop to his knees, to her eye level. He was startled, and his friends for the moment spoke of confusion- however, he reacted with his second mistake, which was to take a wild swing at Ismene. The small woman shoved his thumb back while raising her elbow to crack into his nose; she used enough force in her elbow strike causing him to fall back, holding his face with his free hand and screaming to his friends to assault her. His third mistake.

With swift movement, the woman darted back a few paces and set her basket down behind her, rising with a careful stance, her feet bracing, left hand open and right in a fist. Ismene regarded the men who lined up but glanced to one another as if to decide who wanted a shot at her person first. An overconfident man would push back his friends and roll his neck, cracking it. He was built strong, his arms the size of her head. Speaking no words, his eyes betrayed his intent, which was nothing Ismene would have this night.

His lunge forward would have been sudden if there were not several tells Ismene noted before it. As his hands reached for her neck she darted down, easily avoiding the contact but making her own as her fisted right hand connected with his gut in a strike that was all too hard to match her frame. As her assailant spit out his breath, she used her other hand and in a shove tripped him so he would fall backward, following up with a kick to his side that elicited a scream of pain- all of this in seconds at most.

As the others looked a lot less confident, she spoke again,

"I believe it apparent now why I encouraged your friend that it be unwise to continue ill courtesies with my person. I also believe that it is best for you to withdraw and 'cut your losses', as the phrase goes. Nonetheless, I stand ready to teach each of you the lesson your friends have learned."

The rabble heeded her warning this time, and quickly grabbed and picked up the two men who were down. As they shuffled away in defeat one of them called a threat that Ismene believed was idle foolery. Her attention, once the party of brawlers were out of threatening range, was upon her basket first, which was untouched in the engagement, and the rising man who looked stunned, as he collected his thoughts.

Pain was a constant reminder as the young man struggled to stand, he felt the blood seeping from a nose that must have been broken, and the rising bruise on his left cheek. Two punches had nearly knocked him out upon the floor of the _Justicar_ , and what was an early start to his ambitions was practically cut short- and in his mind was over. Such thoughts left as he met the light Gray eyes of the woman who had saved him from a worse fate.

"Thank you…" he said, not able to hide the pain he was feeling, which was not the worst he had felt, but this was coupled with a feeling of utter defeat to his very core. He felt, for the moment, as if the eyes bore through to his mind and the woman knew all too well, but he shook the thought as she spoke,

"You are welcome. I trust with such troubles gone you will be ok from this point on? You have some notable injuries, but nothing too severe."

A sting of pain reminded him of his injuries as he glanced back to find the owner dropping his belongings aside the entrance. The angered stare that came with it was clear indication he was no longer welcome in the establishment. The woman arched a brow as he looked back at her,

"W…what is your name, miss? Is it uh, 'unwise' to ask?" the young man said.

She pursed her lips a moment but then gave it,

"I am Ismene, and you?"

"Uh- right." He dipped his head, "Willem. Willem Littledale of Asbravn."

Willem was regarded a moment before she spoke, as he motioned towards his gear and began to replace it upon his back.

"You are some form of armsman I take it?"

To lie and say yes would be a waste of Ismene's time, Willem wagered. While worrisome of the response he might get from the truth, he decided to be straight with her.

"Not quite. I was a Miner, and… well… I up and decided to leave that life and take a chance exploring." He felt a fool as he said it. In his first city, and he felt ready to march back home and never face such pain and embarrassment again. Ismene tilted her head some and looked in thought. In reality, she left him in silence for perhaps a few seconds longer than she intended.

"You may walk with me if you would like, mister Willem."

The offer caused Willem to blink but after a moment he nodded his head, "S-sure thing."

As he walked with the smaller woman who kept a brisk pace, his thoughts were on what to do about his face. The looks he received, both of confusion and comedic, would need to be put to an end soon. As dusk faded to night, the two found themselves at the entrance to the Library- the entire walk was in silence. Perhaps Willem might have regretted that.

"You may join me inside if that is acceptable, mister Willem. I believe you to be one of the few men who would not take worrisome meaning out of such a statement." Ismene regarded him and motioned towards the Library.

Walking in first, Willem was met with a dimly lit hall that opened into a large room, shelved in rows with several tomes, with the occasional sets of table with chairs. He felt alone in the structure as he stopped to look back to Ismene who joined him and motioned to follow. Her brown robes flowed along the floors as she reached a simple wooden door. Producing a key, she unlocked and opened the door to reveal a cramped chamber. Ismene stopped and glanced over her shoulder,

"Please procure two chairs from the table behind you- and try not to disturb the silence too much, yes?" She disappeared into the chamber and left the door open.

With his task complete, there was little room for movement in the chamber, as Willem sat down with a sigh, setting his pack and blade against a shelf, careful so the pommel rest on wood and not book. Ismene glanced back at him momentarily, then resumed her work. A silver candelabra lit the room, where she wrote into a book before her, glancing to read a book propped on a stand and then write again. She turned pages on both.

"I am currently employed as a Scribe, if you are curious," she said, breaking the silence as Willem touched at his nose and winced, she continued, "…and am currently copying _Panani Folkor's The Glittering Illusion_ from Gnomish to Common."

Willem glanced at both and realized such was true- he couldn't read the Gnomish but wagered the foreign script to be such.

"It is a task that requires a lion's share of attention and care, though I imagine you are more than happy to rest given your ordeal."

She was right. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thanking her again. Willem couldn't sleep, but sitting here, in silence only accompanied by the scratching of quill to page, was a welcome retreat from his previous experience. He thought of home, he thought of his decision, and then he thought of the dream…

No less than a tenday before, as he helped in closing his father's Mine for the coming Winter, an exhausted Willem collapsed in his bed (which at the moment he missed), and drifted into a troubled sleep, that soon brought him a very vivid dream. Within his room his eyes opened…

… _and he found himself looking at the ceiling yet again- however, it was very dark- the air was still and there was not a stirring sound. Something felt… off. He took a breath and realized for a few instants he was stuck- paralyzed but not with fear- perhaps in his fatigue. A sudden regaining of movement brought his head up to look to the doorway. He had left his door open, though a startling realization nearly cause a yelp- there was a figure in the doorway- Willem started to jump up…_

He recalled awaking and finding no one there. Worried, he searched and found no sign of the figure. His worry would all but suddenly calm into a lack of alarm, and he would slip into another dream…

… _The ceiling. There were some details he never noted of it before, and his mind felt a little lost. This time as his head tilted up to see the doorway, he was not alarmed at the figure, and as it moved a step forth to reveal itself, he was confused. It was an old man, with long white hair, beard, and eyebrows that shone in stark contrast to the dark features of the room. He made no noise, and beckoned Willem with a hand towards the hallway._

 _Willem didn't remember getting up, but found himself in the hallway- and there was the figure again, at the end and beckoning upward towards the attic. No sense of anything but wonder is what guided him to draw the ladder and climb up into the confined spaces of attic. While the old man was no longer there, Willem found himself compounded to move and shuffle through the stored items to a corner where a chest, somewhat more ornate than the others stood apart. He found himself reaching behind it and gripping something, pulling it up and placing a large sword, a Greatsword, before the chest. He recognized it, that of his Uncle who had passed some years before._

 _He was looking into the chest, opened now. It was his Uncle's belongings, but what he removed was a scroll case that contained maps, an old leather pack that felt for the most part empty, and an oddly shaped piece of metal, the size of his palm, which he turned and seemed somewhat startled by- it was that of a bearded man, much like the old man he had seen, in traveling clothes and cape, shades of green, walking with the wind. There was a sense of wonder and a confidence over him. He began to heft up the sword to look at it…_

Willem had awoken that morning, and sure enough found the chest and sword where it was. His life was always set before him. The second son of his father, the first of which was drafted into the local militia known as 'Redcloaks', it would be his destiny to work and then tend to the Mine as a joint owner. With this came a cushioned lifestyle for what the small town had to offer- a well-built home with comfortable furniture and never a want to eat or be clothed for the season.

For Willem, however, this was far from what he ever wanted. After gaining literacy, he would seek out and read stories of Adventurers and lands far away. This would develop into an interest in Exploring that his Father was keen on him forgetting, but his late uncle encouraged. Willem's uncle was an adventurer and had traveled East, seeing several lands and taking part in plenty of dangerous quests that made for tales which excited a wanderlust from young Willem. This, of course, would fade with the untimely death of the man. But it was just a tenday before this moment within the Library, that such wanderlust came back swinging, with a dream so vivid and surely a sign.

As a slumped Willem reached under his armor and removed a pendant, Ismene showed some interest side glancing, careful not to be intrusive. It was circular, and depicted an older man walking among swirling clouds. Any more detail was unapparent from her angle, and Willem did not note the curious glance.

Willem knew not the name of the man depicted upon the symbol, but he knew it to be the figure from his dream, and finding such in the chest surprised him. In the moment he was filled with doubt, believing it better to rest and march back home, than continue with his wild dream of exploring. Caught in reflection, he did not see nor hear the figure approaching the open doorframe from within the Library- a man, hooded in a faded green cloak.

The steps were too sturdy to be any of her previous assailants, yet differing from the scholars of the Library- however, Ismene did not appear concerned or even react until three loud raps on the open door caused Willem to nearly fall out of his chair.

"Easy, lad, I ain't gonna hurt you. Well, Ismene, I was unaware you'd company." A gruff voice spoke over the commotion that was Willem, and the young woman turned in her seat to address the speaker.

"Mister Keveak, welcome back. There should be another chair for you…" she looked to Willem and felt a need to say "He is a friend; you need not be alarmed." Completely turned to face them, she crossed her hands and glanced between the two. Keveak lowered his hood, revealing olive skin and blue eyes, his face framed by unkempt, flowing brown hair. Regarding Willem with what she was sure was pity, he introduced himself,

"I'm Keveak an' that's my only name. You?"

"Willem," who groaned as he tried to sit straight, "Willem Littledale of Asbravn."

The same greeting he gave her. Keveak offered a hand and Willem took it, as the two gripped hands Keveak spoke,

"I see those lot did a number on ya. Tell ya what, I'll do you a kindness an' tend to yer wounds, if'n ya trust me to do so." Willem glanced from Keveak to Ismene and back. Was he really looking to her opinion again?

"Mister Willem, this man is trustworthy; and, Mister Keveak- you witnessed the fight?"

"Aye, was inside the Justicar when it took place… sorry lad, wasn't really my place t' interfere an' the like…" he insisted as Willem finally nodded to his previous question.

Keveak raised a hand towards his face and touched his cheek, holding in there as he murmured a form of incantation. Looking startled, Willem touched his cheek and nose as both returned to an uninjured state. He, at best, looked speechless.

"Don't mention it."

As he took a seat in the second chair she had reserved for him, Ismene went back to her work. To her further interruption could wait a few pages, though it left the room in an odd silence, and the two men sizing one another up silently. Keveak's cool, calm stare met one filled half with awe and half with defeat. Unaware of the interaction, the young woman continued her work, filling both sides of the open book before her and sprinkling some salt. In a ritualistic fashion, she wiped the quill and set it, smoothed her robes and turned to face the two.

Before she could get a word in, she took note that both men were staring at her, but in particular, Keveak's features spoke of an imminent need to speak. The newcomer took a sharp breath and glanced at Willem,

"You're not plannin' on taking this one with us are ya? He's bloody green, greener'n my cloak and a burden- I can see it in his eyes."

The confusion in Willem's eyes were all he could retort before Ismene simply stated,

"I know not as of yet any plans involving this young man, though I had intended to ask for your assistance in tending his wounds- which I thank you for doing out of kindness. With that said -"

Keveak interrupted her, her response of pursed lips a clear dislike to the act,

"What has he told you? I doubt he knows a thing or two about that sword of his, and I betcha he's some rich boy thinkin' he can tackle the world with coin. That's what I read of 'em. Burden."

Willem looked unamused.

"This young man has been honest with me in our interactions as of today. You are right, he is green, and- well, why should I speak for you, Mister Willem?" Ismene glanced to him, her Gray eyes meeting a dark shade of Green.

"Speak for yourself, and sit up straight- some proper posture will at least offer a little aid to defending your person."

Willem did straighten up and feign some sort of confidence, though he felt odd defending himself against a man that had just used some sort of magics to heal him. Whatever the case, he relayed his story. The truth of it- his somewhat comfortable lifestyle, which allowed the man Keveak a smirk, along with his dream, which gave pause to both that made his audience, and his want to explore. He noted that Ismene regarded him as Keveak in some ways dismissed him as silence grew after the exposition. In his mind, the expectation would be dismissal, and whatever these two had in mind would be their own business. He thought of an Inn he had passed on his way to the _Justicar_ , and how much of what little coin he had would be spent on staying the night. Lost in his own thought, he did not see a silent discussion held by the others in the room.

"We all were made to start somewhere, were we not?" the silence was broken by Ismene. Willem looked to her, and Keveak gave a small sigh as she continued,

"Well, Mister Keveak? Do not relay to me that you entered this world a capable woodsman, a 'Ranger' as you say. You do not think I left my Mother's womb with my pursuit of knowledge and my martial capabilities? I was not always of the Order."

 _The Order..?_ Willem looked a little confused though he followed the argument.

"While you are right, Ismene, I still wonder as to why you are even considering…"

"Considering what?" Willem broke the silence and interrupted the man. Both looked at him,

"Well, is it some sort of secret or are you two adventurers? That's what I pin you as anyhow, and that's what I want to do. Maybe for different reasons, sure, but I know my way around the sub terrain. I know about metals, minerals, and their worth. I've had to do business many times and can barter fairly well. I know how to hunt, skin, pack, and cook game. I can set and disarm a trap, just as I did every winter season to keep claim jumpers out. I, uh, had a thing with the locksmith's daughter and that lead to me learning a thing or two about picking locks and the like…" the last line caused a notable brow raise from Ismene, though he continued, "… I'm not completely worthless to travel with is what I'm getting at… and travelling with more folk is safer is it not?"

Keveak maintained a frown as Ismene spoke to him,

"I did mention to you that I am currently employed as a Scribe, though this is not my only purpose within this Library, and it is temporary and soon ending. With that said, there is little secrecy here, with the exception to those that mean my person harm, which hopefully are few. I do not believe you to be one of those number, so allow me to inform you as to my intent.

"The Order I mentioned earlier is that of the _Children of the Passive Voice_. As such, my other purpose in this Library is to protect it overnight from any troubles. The Children, my brothers and sisters respectively, protect Libraries and Abbeys. Too, we strike out in search of knowledge, not only to build upon our martial ability but also our knowledge, and that which can be maintained. A very brief descriptor of my person, but it should suffice for now. Mister Keveak here I have hired as a guide, and admittedly a guard of my person, as he knows the lands East of here, and more particularly what dangers reside within them…"

Willem listened intently and took in what he could. He had heard of Monks and Orders before, but never encountered one till this very moment- if what rumors he heard were true, there was little reason for Ismene to need a guard. Willem was truly lost within the city, having realized that striking out on his own would be a fatal mistake. Further, it had been very difficult for him to approach anyone he deemed Adventurer-like. The man was just brazen enough in this moment to offer going with them. For now though, he had enough sense to listen. Ismene continued to speak,

"I've intent to travel East of here, namely on the Trader's Road then overland into the Lightning Steppes. The Steppe land contain many notable ruins I wish to visit and study; the endeavor, however, does not come without danger. There are notable bands of nomadic bandits that accost travelers, and tribes of beasts, be they Orc, Gnoll, or otherwise. I've little doubt that ruins serve as an excellent shelter against weather and makeshift fortification against attack.

"Mister Willem, if you truly wish to travel with the pair of us, I cannot guarantee your safety; It is, however, an ample opportunity to get a taste of exploration- enough experience to shake you of the fantasy of dream, or really solidify a want to do so." She paused a moment, as Keveak looked between the two. Ismene's gaze focused on him,

"I think it an ample opportunity for you to pass along your knowledge and perhaps fashion him to not be so green in the end, yes?"

Keveak eyed Willem, "As sudden as thissus' thrown upon ya, lad, I want t'know you er'damn sure. You need to be able t'make decisions on yer'feet and stick to'em if you ever hope t'survive the wilds, or anotha' tavern."

Willem only allowed the silent pause to take a breath. "I am 'damn' sure, and I wish to join you both. Let it be known I'll defer to both of you and do my best to be assistive to this trip."

Ismene offered a small grin that seemed to be her version of a smile. It was perhaps the most outward emotion, save her common brow raises, she had mustered in their interaction.

"It is settled, then. Perhaps a very sudden and fateful decision on your part, mister Willem, but one I believe to benefit all of us. On the morrow, you will procure what necessary supplies you do not possess with mister Keveak. We will leave the morning after, as by then my obligations here will cease."

Keveak begrudgingly accepted, and in a short time Willem was shown to the basement of the Library, where a few cots were assembled. Ismene would remain awake, tending to her duties. As Willem settled in, resting on the somewhat comfortable cot, his mind drifted. What had this sudden decision afforded him? What would come of these travels into the Lightning Steppes? Had he made the wrong decision? His thoughts while keeping him awake eventually lost to the need of rest. He did not dream that night.


	3. Chapter 2

_An overcast painted the sky in every shade of white and grey, with bouts of particularly dark shades overhead. From this, a light but steady rain fell to Toril below. Drops hit leaves above Willem, the ground below, and anything in between. In particular, he could hear each drop that hit the hood of his cloak, a simple thud; he watched ripples as the rain collided with a tiny puddle, the water a murky mixture of brown and crimson. Too, the rain hit a face that lay next to the puddle, which contrasted the muddy brown soil with a paling white face. Piercing Blue eyes looked beyond Willem, far beyond him in fact, and reacted not to drops which hit near. They were lifeless, as the man who they belong to lay dead. His mouth was slightly open, and from a corner a steady stream of blood mixed with earth and puddle below. His cropped hair was growing matted as it grew wet. All Willem could think of was his expression- it was one of confusion and perhaps terror, mixed with what he thought might be a certain peace to it all. Willem was left staring, ignoring the rain, and save his shallow breaths made like a statue over the body._

The morning after dreamless rest, Keveak awoke Willem. He first lay out two blankets, and had the young man unpack his belongings. Willem heard the very apparent _tsk's_ and the discussion that followed was not so much belittling as informative. If he were to hit the road, he had to learn how to pack, and how to pack light at that. The very first skill any proper adventuring type needed to understand. Some of the items atop the blanket were traded to Keveak, who in turn would pitch in if coin grew tight. With an almost empty backpack on his back, Willem wore a singular color of brown, leaving his armor and weapons in the Library. The day would be spent navigating crowds and going to various shops; the routine was simple. Willem was made to wait outside and down the road some, as Keveak perused goods of the shop in question. If Willem _was so good_ at bartering, he ought to prove it.

Iriaebor was known as the city of a thousand spires for a reason; atop of shelf of rock were several towers, which turned the city into layers as bridges spanned in all direction. For now, Willem stood shaded by one of the many bridges as the sun slowly climbed towards midday. The street was crowded, narrow as it were, filled with passerby that went about their daily routine. Some eyed Willem as they passed; others could care less. A particularly cute commoner caught the eye of the young man, and he watched her pass by before nearly jumping out of his own skin as he was startled,

"It's jus' me." Keveak cackled, shaking his head, "Les' put you to the test, young Willem. We are gonna starcha' small. I want ya t' go inta' that shop ovah' there an get yerself a tenner' ah torches, a match box, an' a proper waterskin." Holding out his hand, the Ranger offered a single Silver Piece.

"Cost ya' ninety copper if ya' jus' buy it, an should cost y'eighty to begin with. I want ya' to come back 'ere with ah'least thirty copper in yer paw. Show me yer worth, Willem."

The shop in question served hunters and woodsman more than anyone else- probably a proper home for Keveak. Willem might have struck the others perusing goods as a logger, the way he stopped to stare at a few axes on the wall for a time. After a brief pause, he gathered what he needed- the shopkeep, a rather large and bearded fellow, kept a barrel full of torches and coils of twine. A true 'bundle' of ten was made as Willem tied them together. Next, he picked up the waterskin, a deep brown leather, corked with a simple cloth strap. The shopkeep, Tandin by name, kept tinderboxes- which he called match boxes, at the counter. Tandin introduced himself and went over what goods were on his counter.

"Let's see here, ten torches, a waterskin and a matchbox? That'll be ninety copper young man." He eyed Willem expectantly, who countered.

"You and I both know that's a little steep, Tandin," Willem pointed at the bundle,

"No more than a copper a piece for these torches. I'd say another eighteen or so for the Waterskin, and let's go with thirty and five for the match box, given you are quite kind with how many matches you've stuffed in there."

Tandin's brows furrowed, "I'll come on down to eighty for the bunch. That's a good price, but your pushing your luck."

"Hardly. Come now, let's be honest. My offer was a fair one but I'll throw in some extra coins in good faith. You can have sixty and eight total."

"Seventy."

"Deal."

The two shook, and Willem gathered his goods. Planting thirty coin in Keveak's hand earned him a look of approval. The rest of the day would be in favor of Willem and impressing Keveak. With some exceptions, of course. Only once did Willem begrudgingly pay more than he should have, and of all things it was a Bedroll. Eight silver for the roll earned him a chuckle from the Ranger, however it was of exceptional quality.

A day of walking in the shadow of spires ended with a return to the Library. There, Ismene worked, preferring solitude. Back at the cots, Willem was made to unpack. Upon the blankets now were a bedroll, blanket, four pairs of socks, a new pair of boots (which Willem had been made to start breaking in for half of the day), a few pairs of undergarments, two shirts, one green and one a similar brown, two belts, a few pouches and frogs, a pair of gloves, a crowbar, tankard, Grappling Hook with fifty feet of hempen rope, a small hammer with five pitons, a small aid kit, mess kit, sewing kit, an Iron Pot, ten dried rations, two vials- potions that healed, and a whetstone.

"Here's somethin' to add- I decided t'splurge an' get y'it." Keveak set down a cloth roll and unstrapped two buckles to reveal a proper locksmith's kit. Picks, a small mirror, narrow bladed scissors, pliers.

"This must have cost you quite a bit?" Willem said, confused but appreciative.

"Les' hope you make some use outta'it yeah? Now then. Look at all this shyte. I want you t'try and pack it. You've a backpack, the pouches that'll go on yer belt and some pockets. Don't forget you'll be wearin' your armor an' cloak, an' of course yer blade and pick."

Needless to say, Willem had difficulties. Shoving everything into his backpack and pouches and then donning his studded leathers, cloak, weapons, and tying his belts- now three, two on his waist and one over a shoulder that held his Greatsword. Next came the pack, and Keveak grinned some as after a few steps Willem looked particularly bothered.

"Pokin' ya all over isn't it? Not comfortable, not practical. Y'know how many folk try an' set out like tha? You'd be surprised I bet. This is 'light' given the overland journey we are about t'take. Time t' unpack, an' be quick about it." Willem eyed Keveak as he finished that last line, but listened.

With everything back in place, and now just in his clothes, Willem watched as Keveak produced several strips of leather. Near the cots set a small table, and the man motioned Willem to follow as grabbed the empty backpack of Willem's, and introduced his own. Setting both on the table, he instructed Willem to sit.

"We are gonna go ahead an' make some additions to this pack of yers. It's a strong one, 'bout the only thing was right on ya' when I first saw ya. Look at mine- see what I've done?" There were leather strips that appeared sewed onto the pack, in various places. Willem gave a nod.

"It's kinda funny watchin' you tryin' t'stuff obnoxious shyte in yer pack. Tha' pot of yours, yer waterskin, the crowbar- these're things tha' can be tied on th'outside and help counter the weight some. You also want extras as y'may need to carry more at some point- a'course, you need to be smart about wha. I also want you punching through the backpiece of yer' armor, nearer th' sides. You can carry shyte there t', but you need t'be careful. Start with yer' pack." He set the sewing kit on the table. "Match my pack an' then get some rest- don' slack off either. You don't want'a be a burden? Prove it."

Keveak left Willem alone before he could respond. Willem got to work, though that work would span a few hours more than he ever thought it would. Mistakes would be made, stitching broken, strips flipped around; stitching failing, fingers bled, and so on. Willem felt an utter failure for a time, but eventually felt accomplished as he settled in on his cot. His first tasking was over- and now he could pack easier for it.

The next day reminded Willem of chores back home. It would be spent not in leisure; instead, he was made to practice packing, sew strips on his armor, perform maintenance on his weapons, and buy goods for both Keveak and Ismene. The day went by without any troubles, and his final night in Iriaebor found him breaking bread with the two and discussing the coming travel. Perhaps from drowsiness, or a recognition of need to rest, he remembered reaching his cot, and instantly being shaken away in the dark recesses of the Library. It was time to go.

Keveak preferred avoiding Easting, a small village to the South East of Iriaebor on the Trader's Road- something about a disagreement with a Sage or some such. Whatever the case, Ismene made no objection, and Willem felt it wasn't his place to do so. A smaller, less traveled path cut directly East, and would eventually find the main road. It would be on this path that the trio made their first camp; Ismene propped a small tent and resigned herself to it, leaving Willem and Keveak to a sparse words and a small discussion on watches. Ismene, from her tent, asked for the final watch. Keveak would take the first as he wasn't feeling ready to sleep just yet.

Willem found himself having some trouble sleeping in his bedroll, but not from exposure to the elements- it was a calm and clear night. Instead, it was an uncomfortable experience that made him momentarily think of his feather bed back home on multiple occasion. After digging rocks out from under his resting place and pulling himself back into his bedroll, he eventually enjoyed a few hours of sleep, dreamless… to be shaken awake by the Ranger.

"Yer Turn, pup. Dontcha' dare sleep on watch'er I'll kick yer arse."

[i]Pleasant[/i]. The word stuck in the young man's mind as he took his place, leaning against a tree and crossing his arms. He kept his Warpick with him, and left the massive Greatsword parallel to his bedroll. The watch would see him exercising his mind in what felt a never-ending combat against boredom. He checked Selûne's location in the sky multiple times, and counted her Tears- at least as many as he could make out- three times, finding one more and considering it a small victory. Once he heard a shuffle nearby and grew stiff with fear, only to find a hare darting across an opening some paces away. At one point, the deafening silence was broken by his own snort and chuckle after, as he recalled a rather dry joke… he calmed himself down and grew silent again.

"How are you this evening, mister Willem?"

Ismene's voice beside him nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. He did not hear the woman leave her tent or approach him. Feeling drowsy, he at first was terrified he had fallen asleep, but after a moment was convinced this was not the case. Stifling a yawn, he replied,

"Tired and a little bored."

Ismene's eyes glanced about the immediate area, and as she replied fixated on a point in the distance,

"A welcome feeling when it comes to overnight watch. You are welcome to retire to your bedroll."

Willem nodded some and bade the woman a good evening, finding himself welcoming of his bedroll this time around. It was not long before he was asleep, and this time it wasn't dreamless… but whatever it was that he dreamt fled away as a boot prodded him awake. The morning revealed an overcast sky that threatened rain, with a cool, steady breeze that made him shiver as he pressed his knees down on the bedroll to tie it properly.

Willem found himself in the middle, with Ismene at the rear and Keveak guiding the small party. After two hours, the threat of rain became a reality, but this reality was a very light drizzle that only caused him to pull his hood up in annoyance of a drop landing near his eye. The Ranger decided to verge away from the path in a Northerly direction, citing his reasoning the weather. A curious Willem received an explanation that the rain would cause the roads to become muddy, bogging down travelers and making them easier prey for highwaymen. Willem took the Ranger's word for it.

Overland travel caused a series of minor hindrances, all of which were overcome but at the cost of a slower pace. These particular lands were covered in a somewhat dense forest, the floor of dead leaves starting to grow wet. Willem would slip a few times, and at least once found himself a lot closer with a tree than he intended. For the most part, the winding and weaving through openings in the brush were uneventful, if a lot more effort than walking down a path. It would be just after making water that the would-be explorer would come face to face with the realities of his trek.

Adjusting his belts, the young man rushed into a clearing to find Ismene, alone, with five men at various paces ahead of her. Willem approached the lot, all armed, to echoes of laughter. The men were not any sort of traveler that gave the man confidence. Willem could only think about the absence of Keveak, as he slowly approached and stood next to Ismene. The woman was drawing some soil back with her foot, testing something or some such, as far as he could tell.

"Pft- look ah'this lads, look ah'th protection this lass done got. What is'e? Twenty?" a fellow in a muddied brown tunic with a great club spoke, the weapon in his right hand, tapping his left.

"Shame his armor is so nice, eh Borris? Could get us a few silver an' such. The sword will make a good-"

"Shut up, you lot." The voice of the man at the forefront, mere paces from Ismene, was clear, and carried well enough that there was an eerie moment of silence. His eyes, a shade of blue, eyed the newcomer,

"Face it. You are outmatched, lad. If you drop your weapons and your armor I may let you run back home to yer mother with the clothes on your back. More n' I can say of a fair number that have crossed my path. Adventuring sorts, heroes that think they'll best me… bunch of blundering fools. Too, I'll spare this girl, though many of my lot will hate me for it. I can tell ya there are many that'd keep her for some time, if ya get the notion."

Ismene did not look amused, and Willem scoffed some at the notion. Taking a breath, he meant for a retort, and then looked stumped. The man watched him a moment before looking to Ismene, who gave a simple response,

"I suggest you and yours take your notions and leave, before you come to regret it."

The woman must be mad, Willem considered. The man with blue eyes carried a rapier on his hip, the only weapon yet drawn among his cronies. A great club, short blade, mace, and crossbow made up the rest. In truth, the young man was frozen for the moment. He was sure this was it, and that even the Monk beside him could only do so much. Blast that Keveak fellow, calling him green and then departing when it was convenient…

…and then a whistle and a thud alerted him to an arrow sticking out of the crossbowman's neck, as the weapon dropped and the man grasped at his neck, a look of horror in his eyes. For a moment, all were confused, and then it would be hell that broke loose in the small clearing, a peaceful meadow made a place of battle.

Ismene was no longer next to Willem. From what the young man witnessed of her, she managed to rush towards the assumed leader of the lot, and grip his sword hand which drew for his weapon. A punch to the stomach left the man gasping for air, and he recalled her hair whipping away from the swing of a great club. She was out of sight. Another arrow found the man with short blade, but it was glancing blow that made the man charge towards the trees. Willem's eyes focused on the leader, who was standing straight and drawing his blade. A grin made the young man realize that in these moments he had done nothing but stare. In place, he watched the man advanced, as a running Ismene released a series of punches on the man named Borris, who crumpled to the floor. Steel against Steel named Keveak in battle against the man with short blade. Willem was left alone.

 _Draw the Blade or draw the War Pick? Draw the Blade or draw the War Pick? Draw the blade-_

Willem grasped at the War Pick, somehow managing to lift it from it's hitch and swing it about as a Rapier jabbed at his stomach. The jabbing blade slid down the Pick and caught his arm, causing Willem to cry out and step a pace back.

"Easy pickings."

The next swing was an arc from the man's right, coming at his left. Willem haphazardly swung the pick, deflecting the rapier. His movement must have caught the man off guard, the momentum of it twisting his sword arm and causing him to recoil.

 _This was it_.

Willem held his hand back, and swung down with all his might, though he held the weapon in its reverse, the spiked end coming down. His foe managed to bring the rapier up, but not in enough time. The pick came crashing down through parry, and drove with a sickening crunch into what Willem could only guess was the man's collar bone. The cry and stumble back caused Willem to follow, as he held onto his weapon, nearly causing him to lose balance and grip. Something drove the young man to rip the weapon out and take another swing- though this afforded his foe opportunity.

As the rapier glanced off his leather armor in what must have been a supreme moment of luck, Willem's foe could not say the same. The arc of the swing brought the pick into the man's side, a gasp and dropping of the rapier a clear indication that this fight was over. Driving through armor and skin, it was all Willem could do to rip out the pick before the man fell flat on his back.

Willem heaved a heavy breath- he must of held off from breathing during the assault- and found himself staring at the man who writhed on the ground a mere moment before coming to a certain still of final rest. He was dead, and somehow it was _Willem_ that did it.

The others of the dead man's number were met with a similar fate. Keveak and Ismene ran through their number with an experience of combat Willem could not understand. While he did not see most of it, his focus elsewhere, he would eventually learn of who downed who. For now, the man remained in place, his right arm holding the light war pick loosely, the arm coated in blood with a small stream finding his hand and grip- injury unattended and even ignored. Willem had _killed a man_.

An overcast painted the sky in every shade of white and grey, with bouts of particularly dark shades overhead. From this, a light but steady rain fell to Toril below. Drops hit leaves above Willem, the ground below, and anything in between. In particular, he could hear each drop that hit the hood of his cloak, a simple thud; he watched ripples as the rain collided with a tiny puddle, the water a murky mixture of brown and crimson. Too, the rain hit a face that lay next to the puddle, which contrasted the muddy brown soil with a paling white face. Piercing Blue eyes looked beyond Willem, far beyond him in fact, and reacted not to drops which hit near. They were lifeless, as the man who they belong to lay dead. His mouth was slightly open, and from a corner a steady stream of blood mixed with earth and puddle below. His cropped hair was growing matted as it grew wet. All Willem could think of was his expression- it was one of confusion and perhaps terror, mixed with what he thought might be a certain peace to it all. Willem was left staring, ignoring the rain, and save his shallow breaths made like a statue over the body.

A knelt figure in faded green came from the left, as hands began to pat and search the dead man with piercing blue eyes. This is what drew Willem to come out of his trance; a shaky voice escaped his lips,

"What are… why…"

"Do nae speak now, young lad. I know what yer goin' through, which is wanna' th' only reasons I ain't smackin' ya upside yer head. What this man has serves no one now but us. You'll come t'learn such in yer travels."

"I believe Willem has suffered injury." Ismene said from his right. Willem glanced to her, to find she was nearly covered in mud. Surely his thoughts gave way through his experession,

"A take down, mister Willem. I can always tend to my clothes later."

Feeling a grasp on his arm, Willem saw Keveak before him, who murmured and healed his injury. The feeling of it was still a new phenomenon to the young man at this point. Glancing down, he noted the blood-stained sleeve and rip where the rapier found his arm.

"Good on ye, lad. For yer first engagement tha' wasn't a total disaster. Fer now, however, we need t'continue moving. I've little doubt this lot 'ave friends, and I ain't keen t'meet em."

A few minutes later, the clearing with five dead men was left silent, not a creature stirring. The party of three continued along their path, Willem lost deep in thought, the dead man's eyes a constant. He did not recall much of the trek for the remaining hours of daylight; though in some regards he started to come out of his torment as camp was being made. Keveak and Ismene would share watch that night. The Ranger made it clear this would be the only time that Willem would be afforded such a privilege, as he felt the man could not rightly stand a proper watch.

Willem found his eyes growing heavy, and as he fell asleep a pair of hands grasped his neck. Eyes opening, he found himself in the meadow, a pair of piercing blue eyes staring deep into his soul. He did not sleep well that night.


End file.
